


Grounded

by fandumbandflummery, subtropicalStenella



Series: SWR: PTAU [1]
Category: Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Alternate Universe - Domestic, Alternate Universe - High School, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Family Drama, Family Fluff, Gen, Suburbia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-24
Updated: 2018-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-23 16:53:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13792026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandumbandflummery/pseuds/fandumbandflummery, https://archiveofourown.org/users/subtropicalStenella/pseuds/subtropicalStenella
Summary: First in a series of domestic fluff modern AU ficlets. May eventually get it's own ask blog.Started as a terrible idea of "Okay but what if these ridiculous found-families had to deal with normal stuff like  PTA meetings and neighborhood BBQs?" and the realization that it would be a spectacular, hilarious dumpster fire.Thus, the Star Wars Rebels PTA-AU, or PTAUEdit: now with Ask Blog! "rebels-ptau" tumblrEditEdit: Casting Change of VP Tarkin to VP Vanto. Whoops.





	Grounded

Okay. So. I kinda figured this whole Parent-Teacher Conference thing would go badly.

So, first thing: Mr. Vanto immediately objected to Chopper being there, and don't get me wrong: 75lb of one-eyed, three-legged, going-grey-in-the-muzzle, grumpy,  _ gassy _ Malinois is  _ plenty  _ objectionable. 

 

But there was  _ no  _ reason for him to respond to Caleb’s casually-drawled answer of, “Service dog.” 

with 

“Your  _ service dog  _ is a half-blind amputee? Isn't that a trifle backwards?” 

 

I could actually  _ see  _ the few fucks Caleb had managed to scrape together for this stupid Conference flutter right out the window. Not that anyone else could tell. He didn't move from his comfortable, “manspreading” slouch in the slightest, just cocked an eyebrow (that had  _ finally _ grown back in) over his (horrible) triple-extra-dark 80s-era Ray Bans and said, “He’s for emotional support.”

Which really didn't help our case, especially since Chop  _ refused  _ to wear his little orange WORKING DOG: DO NOT PET vest and Caleb apparently forgot his cane  _ again. _ So obviously Caleb just brought his dog to the meeting and faked a reason to do so.

 

“Kanan Jarrus,” Caleb says, holding out his hand to shake. It was a neat trick: initiating the gesture let him hide his disability a bit longer, rather than having to grope around for the other person's hand.

Vanto doesn't take it, instead saying, “I was under the impression Mr. Bridger's guardian’s name was  _ Caleb. _ ”

Caleb chuckles a little ruefully and drops his hand. “Yeah, sorry. Still getting used to the name change. Either’s fine.”

 

He has to raise his voice over the heavy roar of Hera’s monster  _ Shadow Phantom _ cruiser pulling up in front of the office. 

 

“I see,” Vanto says, in that  _ extremely _ skeptical tone of his that says  _ You and I both know you're full of shit  _ and I realize that Vanto doesn't believe him  _ at all _ . He probably thinks Caleb/Kanan is some jackass I met outside the 7/11 and paid $50 pretend to be my dad for this thing.

Hera just makes it worse when she walks in. 

Maybe Caleb should have kept the beard? He had at least looked older with it, but he  _ also _ looked like he'd spent the better part of six months living in the woods, communing with Nature or some shit.

 

Which, y’know. He had.

 

(Look, Dr. Benjamin Du Atollan was  _ highly  _ acclaimed and accredited, and he’d done some  _ amazing  _ shit with Caleb between the physio- and mental therapy until it was like Caleb wasn't even  _ blind _ half the time. It's just that his “office” was a minimalist cabin in the middle of fucking  _ nowhere _ and his methods involved shit like walking around in the wilderness. While blind. Something about trusting instinct and other senses. I dunno.  _ Anyway…) _

 

Hera, however, is a very obviously late-twenties smokin’-hot biker babe, and still has the green stripes woven into the dozens of teeny-tiny braids she has hanging in two bigger, fatter braids down to her butt.

That also doesn't help. Caleb’s the kind of vaguely-indeterminate Brown Person that could look  _ sort of _ like my Middle Eastern Brown if he tried, but Hera’s Creole by way of  _ Haiti.  _ It's pretty obvious we're not blood-related. 

 

“Sorry I'm late, traffic was murder--”

“Think nothing of it, Miss…?” Vanto says quietly, fake-polite.

“Syndulla. Hera Syndulla.”

 

Yeah, my  _ guardians _ don't have the same last name either, so, more credibility lost because people put so much value on legal action and 'bullshit patriarchal ownership rituals’ (thanks Sabine) rather than the fact that they've been together for ten years. 

 

“I was just about to tell Mr. Bridger that if he intends to get out of trouble by paying friends to impersonate his parents, he should at least choose people from the appropriate demographics.”

Hera doesn't bat an eyelash.

She lets Caleb do that for her. 

 

That involves Caleb whipping off his glasses, and revealing that  _ whoops, _ he legitimately needs a service dog, and turning towards Hera. He's wearing glass fakes in both his empty, burnt-out eye sockets, but apparently opted for the creepy blank white ones rather than the ones with pupils. (“Hera says they can't get the green right and that's  _ creepier _ , so just deal.”) The scarring looks a lot better now, still angry red and shiny but, y’know, badass rather than traumatic just to  _ look  _ at. 

 

“You picked a kid that didn't look like either of us?” he snaps, outraged. “How could you?! It's like you think that providing a child with love, shelter and guidance is more important than blood-relation when building a family!”

Amazingly, Vanto doesn't flinch. “I take it Mr. Bridger is adopted, then?”

Caleb turns back to Vanto, and sets his glasses on top of his head, doing that thing where he's somehow looking right at you--like, right into your  _ soul _ \--despite having no eyes at all. “No, he followed me home from a sting operation, nearly blew my cover and ended up bumming couch space off me and my girlfriend for so long that I just decided to keep him like a stray cat.”

 

Which was entirely true, actually, but Vanto just cocks an eyebrow, staring. Apparently Caleb can tell.

 

Caleb _sighs._ “Yes. He's adopted.”

“I brought the paperwork, if you still have questions,” Hera offers too-calmly. 

Vanto continues to be a cold-blooded bastard and just says, “That won't be necessary.” 

“Then are you going to tell us why we're here or…?” Caleb drawls.

 

Hera looks me dead in the eyes--well, eye, because one is swollen shut--and says, “I'm going to guess it has something to do with whatever Ezra managed to do to his face.”

 

Whoops.

 

Caleb is looking at me, now. Freaky as hell, seriously. I'd been carefully making sure the ice pack didn't move around and make noise for him to hear, and let the condensation run down my arm so it wouldn't drip either. Whoever said losing one sense made the others heighten was absolutely right with regards to Caleb. At least it was just his hearing. Or the bleeding from my nose had been stopped for long enough that he couldn't smell it or something, and Chopper hadn't ratted me out.

Yes, the dog could and absolutely would rat me out to Hera and Caleb about all  _ kinds  _ of shit but I guess he has my back today.

 

“I fell.”

 

Chopper snorts, loudly, because he's a goddamn  _ traitor.  _

 

“Doing  _ what?”  _ Caleb growls, because he knows I'm lying.

“Apparently Mr. Bridger finds our Physical Education program lacking, and has taken it upon himself to spend his free time running amok across campus. I believe the colloquial name is  _ parkour,” _ Vanto says, sneering the last word. “If you'd like to step into my office…”

 

It's  _ free-running,  _ jerk, and Caleb is cutting Vanto off anyway. 

 

“Here’s fine, because I don't see the problem with a kid wanting a little more exercise.”

 

Also this way Caleb won’t have to navigate a new room and lose any ground he had re: situational control by suddenly being Disabled™. He's still touchy about that.

Hera adds, “There have been  _ multiple _ studies showing that increased physical activity throughout the day leads to better academic focus.”

“Miss Syndulla, this afternoon your son scaled the cafeteria wall via a dumpster and sprinted across the roof. He then took a running leap across the four meter gap onto the Fine Arts building before climbing a rain gutter and transitioning onto their second story roof and continuing on.”

“Four meter jump on a dead run, huh?” Caleb says, and holds his fist out for a bump. Obviously I give it to him.

“Cleared it easy.”

Neither Hera nor Vanto find it nearly so impressive.

“He was  _ less  _ successfully pursued by another student, a senior named Boba Fett.”

 

The star quarterback, who was surprisingly agile and  _ fast _ for a meathead. 

 

Hera and Caleb both go,  _ ah. _

_Crap._

 

“Was he hurt?” Hera asks, like she doesn't know what actually happened. 

“When campus security retrieved them from behind the science lab, both students displayed similar levels of injury. Nothing severe, but the results were unacceptable regardless.” 

“Of course not, and we appreciate you bringing it to our attention,” Hera says, and doesn't comment on the way Vanto almost sounds disappointed. “I'm sure it won't happen again.”

 

Hera’s got a really nice voice, but _dang_ __ can she ever deliver a threat with just tone when she wants.

 

“I think a few days’ suspension will make sure of that,” Vanto says, hands behind his back like we're at a military briefing. 

“For jumping off the cafeteria roof?!”  _ Seriously?! _

_ “Yes,”  _ Caleb growls, and I shut up.

 

Right, because it's not like I had picked a fight with the darling of the athletic- and academic departments and maneuvered him into a territory and position where I had the advantage and he was exhausted, all in order to manipulate the traditional High School Pecking Order in such a way as to make sure  _ no one _ would fuck with me.

 

That's definitely not what happened. Nope. Nothing worth getting expelled over, just a suspension.

 

“I would prefer that we didn't disrupt his education so early into the school year,” Hera announces, glaring at both of us. “Can we make it detention?” 

“Provided Mr. Bridger doesn't take after his friend Ms. Wren and stage a sit-in protest.”

 

She's my foster sister, but apparently no one told him, and really what did the faculty expect? Of course Sabine would find a way to turn her string of detentions for dress code violations into a constructive criticism of the sexist nature of the dress code and how it valued boys’ education over girls’ and their Distractingly Bare Shoulders.

(“Easiest. Protest. Ever. They want me to sit around and waste my fucking time?  _ I'll waste some fucking time.”  _ She and Ketsu managed to keep Ms. Pryce in the classroom until  _ one am  _ by refusing to leave without being physically hauled out of the room unless Pryce agreed to go over the dress code policies with the school board. Because what were they going to do, suspend them?

The answer there was 'yes' which meant Sabine and Ketsu had arrived at school two hours early the next day in order to sit outside Pryce's office door, lying in wait to ensure she remembered their agreement. Senator Organa’s daughter joining them out of solidarity on day three probably sped up the process and definitely sent Sabine into Full Bisexual Disaster Meltdown for close to a week. And made her doodle  _ Sabine Wren-Organa  _ and  _ Leia Organa-Wren  _ all over her diary. Not that I knew anything about that last part.)

 

Wait shit what's happening? Okay apparently a week's worth of detentions for endangering myself and other students with Reckless Behavior and…

Oh  _ great,  _ I'm going to have to pick an Extracurricular After School Activity to 'properly channel excess energy’. Could do track, I guess. I mean,  _ obviously  _ I'll kill at long- and high-jump and hurdles and also what's his face, Sabine's friend, the one in Air Force ROTC with the cute butt and the stupid name is in it. Wedge? That guy. 

 

Yes, sir Mr. Vanto sir, no more free-running in unauthorized areas without supervision. There's like five loopholes in that,  _ sweet.  _

 

And I'm fucking  _ free _ . Caleb gets up and walks off with his hands in his pockets, his cane collapsed and hanging off his belt like a sword because he's a fucking  _ dork _ with Chopper at his side. Hera loops her arm through his on his opposite side, and between them Caleb navigates easily, probably showing off a little, honestly. He still had Bad Days, but they were fewer and far between, these days.

... I'm free until we get to the parking lot, where Sabine is sprawled across the driver’s seat of Hera’s truck with her feet out the window. Hera and Caleb have one of their conversations that consists of twelve words and a thousand gestures, touches and ten years of experience while I climb into the backseat.

Sabine doesn't look up from her  _ Robot Unicorn Attack 2  _ game, her head on the center console. “So how’d it go?”

“Negotiated down to a week of detention.” 

“Atta boy.”

 

And then Caleb gets into the truck, buckles in and, oh-so-casually, asks  _ Sabine: _

 

“So who's Boba Fett?” 

 

_ Shiiiiiit.  _ I should have asked to ride home behind Hera. Held this off a bit longer. (Chopper got the  _ Phantom’s  _ sidecar. He  _ always _ got the sidecar.)

 

“Star quarterback and captain of the AcaDeca team. Probably going to end up in an Ivy League school on one scholarship or the other and his dad is some kind of professional soldier.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He's a shoo-in for Homecoming King, too.” 

 

Caleb slings an arm over the headrest and turns back to “look” at me. “So you want to tell me why you and the smartest, most athletic and most popular guy in school ended up bloody behind the science lab?”

“Nope.” 

“Too bad, you're gonna.”

 

Like hell I am. He can't see me staring moodily out the window but he knows I am.

 

“Have to say, I'm impressed, you managed to go three whole weeks before you started to throw your weight around,” he drawls.

 

No I didn't, I was strategizing and making sure  _ Boba  _ (seriously, who names their kid  _ Boba?) _ wouldn't wipe the gym floor with me. 

 

“Or you were actually using your head for once, instead of lashing out blindly.”

“Ha  _ ha.”  _

“You know what I meant.” 

 

Sabine isn’t saying anything, concentrating on driving, which is probably a good idea because she only has her learner’s permit and a blind guy doesn't really qualify as a chaperone-driver if we get pulled over.

 

“Ezra, you're safe here. You don't have to establish yourself in a fucking hierarchy with preemptive  _ violence _ to survive. It's a private high school, not  _ Fight Club.”  _

 

The unspoken  _ it's not fucking Black Sun, either, _ hangs in the cab of the truck between us, and I can't help but glance at the section of brilliantly colored planets, moons and galaxies that covers the stark, spiky-stylized Sun insignia on the inside of Kanan-now-Caleb’s inner forearm.

I hadn't been in long enough or gotten high enough in the  _ hierarchy  _ to get one, but when the FBI puts you in deep cover in a massive, multinational criminal organization for a few years, you have to make it look good. Unfortunately once you get  _ out  _ of deep cover, especially via crippling injury after your cover is blown and you get a crimelord’s  _ special  _ version of  _ snitches get stitches _ , you then have a lot of tattoos to cover up. Caleb had opted for an inexplicable combination of “space” and “wolves” and “spacewolves made out of constellations” and “wolves in space”. And a theme-breaking phoenix rising between his shoulder blades, for some reason.

 

“I know.” 

 

Caleb sighs. “Do you feel safer?”

Because he knows that's why I did it.

 

“Yes.”

It comes out sharp and vicious. Defiant.

 

“Fine. You're going to apologize to him, when you're out of detention.” 

_ “What?!”  _

 

That kinda defeats the whole purpose of punching him out?!

 

“Kid’s from a military family too, and if he's as smart as all that, he might just understand.” 

“But--!”

“You don't have to give him details, just apologize. Sincerely.”

“Besides, he might take 'I punched you out because you're the scariest, smartest motherfucker on campus’ as a compliment!” Sabine chirps as she pulls into the driveway along the carefully HOA-maintained lawn of the creepily Stepfordian Suburban Tract Home that Witness Protection put us in. 

 

_ “Fine, _ ” I grumble, and jump out of the truck, headed inside. Okay. All things considered? Not as bad as I thought.

“And you are  _ so  _ grounded, buster!” Hera yells from the driveway as Chopper streaks past me into the house, almost taking me out at the knees (as per usual.)

  
_ Dammit. _


End file.
